Taggart (1959) (8 page)

In the darkness, unknown as he was, she could clothe him with what personality sh
e
would. He could be anyone ... the lover she had so long desired, the unknown ride
r
that she had known would come sometime, the man who would see her for what she was
,
who would know her, and want her for his own.

In reality, he might be an outlaw, a thief, a murderer. He might be a renegade whit
e
man living among Apaches; and if he was any of these things, to disclose her presenc
e
here would be to place herself in jeopardy, and not only herself but Consuelo an
d
Adam.

Yet in the night's vast quiet there was between them thi
s
invisible link, forged by some mysterious bond of stars and stillness. They wer
e
drawn together by the silence, the loom of mountains, and the deep shadows wher
e
the cliffs stood tall. Was he feeling what she felt? Was he, too, sensing that thi
s
moment was the stuff of dreams? That here, for the moment at least, each belonge
d
to the other?

She put her hand to her hair in the darkness, feeling suddenly untidy. She had no
t
prepared herself to meet a lover this night, even one who would in a moment touc
h
his horse with a heel and ride on, moving out of her life and away from her consciousness
,
like all those other faceless, featureless men of whom she had dreamed in the past.

He was there, close to her, a tall, still figure sitting on his saddle, and a ma
n
who might be ... anyone.

He might ride on ... Suddenly, desperately, she wished to say something, some magi
c
word, some phrase that would make him stay, that would draw him to her and keep hi
m
close. She knew suddenly that he must not ride on ... it was here he belonged, besid
e
her.

It was fantastic. The desert night had taken her good sense ... was she a silly
,
romantic girl to be lured by shadows?

She was.

The dream gives its magic until the dream is realized, but even then something o
f
the dream remains ... the aura, the nostalgic, half-realized longing, that stays.

And this silent rider, dark upon his horse, until a word was spoken he was hers
,
and hers alone.

Moments passed, and she was motionless, and the rider sat on his saddle. She sa
w
him replace his hat and her throat tightened at the thought that he might now rid
e
on, that replacing the hat was preliminary to a touch of the heel. His cigarett
e
glowed briefly again like a campfire's spark arrested in flight.

"A night like this is like no other night. There is a beauty in it that is scarcel
y
real."

It was a moment before Miriam realized the rider had spoken, and she was startle
d
... for in this brief standing still of time he had become almost a creation of he
r
fantasy.

"It is the desert."

There was a silence then that neither broke for minutes. Then he said, "It is lat
e
for you to be out."

It was something that might have been said to a young girl in New England, in som
e
village there, after midnight. In this place, under the circumstances it bordere
d
on the ridiculous. "I am not a child, you know."

"You are a woman ... an Apache would even brave the dark for a young woman."

"I am not afraid. "

"Fear is not a bad thing. It is fear that saves men's lives ... it prepares a ma
n
for trouble."

"How do you come to be here? At this place, I mean? Why did you stop?"

"My horse told me you were there. He also told me you were a woman."

"That's impossible."

"No. My horse does not like the smell of Indians, and he knows that smell, but h
e
likes women because he was raised by a woman who made a pet of him.

"When he stopped I knew it was for a reason, and I had been looking for you. My hors
e
was curious but not afraid, and he looked toward you with his ears up, so I kne
w
you were a white person. Had it been a lion or a wolf he would have indicated i
t
by his fear or by his willingness to fight; and of an Indian he would have been afraid
,
and pulled away. But he was eager to go toward you, and from that I knew you wer
e
a woman. "

"You said you had been looking for me?"

"I found your wagon, and figured you would be close by." "You must be hungry."

"Yes. '

"We can offer food, but not much more."

"Wait . . . there will be time enough to eat, but who knows how long it will be agai
n
before I talk to a woman in the night?"

Bats swirled in the cool night sky, and a few scattered clouds obscured the stars
,
and the man on horseback vanished in the greater darkness.

"We saw you earlier today," she said tentatively, as if to test his presence.

"You were on the mountain then," he said. "Yes . . . we saw Apaches, too."

He offered no explanation, and she valued him the more for this. It was enough tha
t
he was here, and must somehow have eluded them. The reason for his presence her
e
at all remained unanswered, and her curiosity prodded her to ask, but she waited
,
feeling that he would explain in his own time.

"We thought our trail was hidden."

"I have lived among the Shoshones and the Nez Perce." He paused to inhale, then snuffe
d
out his cigarette against a boot and dropped it into the sand. "It is well hidden
,
but there are trails that do not lie upon the ground."

Beyond the mountains there was a moon, and the sky across the saw-toothed ridge
s
grew pale, long shadows reaching out toward them, darker by reason of the growin
g
paleness from where the moon would be. A faint wind stirred among the mesquite an
d
cedar, a faint testing push of wind that died away almost at once as if it was no
t
worth the effort.

"I may bring trouble," he said then. "You are followed?"

"Yes." She accepted that ... there could be no other reason for a lone man in thi
s
wild land. So he was an outlaw. But who would follow a man into such an area? Th
e
Army?

He swung down from his horse and stood still beside the saddle for a moment, feelin
g
a sudden faintness. Then he turned and led the horse toward her. "We had better g
o
in," he said. "I do not trust the night."

He was close to her, and she smelled the staleness of sweat, the smell of horse an
d
old leather, of sage, cedar, and wood smoke. She sensed suddenly that this man wa
s
very near to collapse; she could almost feel the tiredness of him.

The thought came to her suddenly as they started to walk inside the canyon. It wa
s
a startling, shocking thought but even while she knew it could not be true, she wa
s
afraid, and had to ask.

"You aren't . . . you aren't Tom Sanifer?"

"No," he said. "Tom Sanifer is dead. He was killed at Fort Bowie by a man named Ada
m
Stark."

Chapter
Five.

W hen he had closed the door behind him he said, "I'm Swante Taggart."

"You'll be wanting to wash," Adam said. "There's water in the bucket, and a basi
n
beside it."

Taggart did not move, but stood, hat in hand, ashamed to invade this quiet place.

"No aim to barge in," he said, "only I played out of grub ... three days back."

Adam noted the size of the man, the faded Army shirt and the worn shotgun chaps.

He noted also the hang of the gun and the way the man carried a Winchester as i
f
born with it. "You've come far."

"I've a man behind me."

"We've asked no questions," Adam said. "You're hungry. You'll eat."

"I can go on ... I've no right to bring you trouble. That man who's behind me ...
h
e's the Law."

"You didn't have to tell me that," Adam said quietly. "My sister will get you food."

Taggart dipped up water in the gourd dipper and poured it into the tin basin, likin
g
the sound of it. The bucket was full, the water clear and dark in the shadows a
t
the side of the room, but it was more water than he had seen since he left the Verde.

Miriam put a plate of beef and beans on the table, with a small dish of squaw cabbage
,
and then brought the blackened pot from the fireplace. As she filled his cup he looke
d
at her hands. They were not dainty, but slender, long-fingered woman's hands, an
d
somehow the seeing of them made him go all quiet inside.

They were gentle hands, strong hands, capable hands; the
y
were the hands of a woman, a mother, a woman to walk beside a man, not behind him.

He looked down at the food before him with sudden helplessness. He bowed his head
,
not in prayer, but only to prevent their seeing his emotion, and when he picked u
p
his fork he did it almost with reverence. He put a few of the beans into his mout
h
and began to chew slowly, savoring each taste.

It is only those who have never been hungry who picture a starving man as gorgin
g
himself when he first finds food. Taggart was terribly hungry, but he had been s
o
long without food that his stomach had shrunk, and for this first meal he would b
e
able to eat very little. Tomorrow and the next day he would be unable to get enough
,
but now it was taste he wanted, and flavor. He ate slowly, pausing from time to tim
e
to drink great gulps of coffee.

The beans had been baked over a fire of creosote wood and had that extraordinar
y
flavor that only creosote smoke can give. The coffee was strong, hot, and black
,
and it seemed to bring new strength to him.

After a dozen bites he sat back and rolled a smoke. He felt the eyes of the Mexica
n
girl upon him, dark, magnificent eyes, and she was a woman who made a man consciou
s
of his maleness.

"This is Consuelo," Adam Stark said, "my wife. And," he gestured to Miriam, "my sister
,
Miriam. I am Adam Stark." Swante Taggart's head came up and Miriam was beside hi
m
with the coffee pot and she nudged him slightly. The question half-formed remaine
d
unasked.

Adam Stark ... the man who had killed Tom Sanifer.

Stark had walked into a saloon where Sanifer stood at the bar, and had told him h
e
did not fight before women, but if he wanted to die, to make his fight there. An
d
Tom Sanifer had backed down.

An hour later, when Stark left the saloon, Sanifer had been waiting for him in th
e
dark, but he had missed his first shot. Adam Stark had not.

Taggart put his cigarette on the edge of his coffee saucer an
d
cut off a small bite of the beef. He chewed slowly, taking his time.

"You've had a rough time," Stark said. "Pete Shoyer is behind me."

"Ah ... there'll be shooting then."

Taggart emptied his cup. "I've never fired on a badge-wearing man," he said, "bu
t
I'll fight if it comes to that."

"Shoyer is a bounty hunter. You'll fight or you'll die."

The candle on the table held a steady light. Miriam filled his cup once more an
d
sat down at the table near him.

He ate a little more, feeling the tenseness leaving his muscles and the quietnes
s
come into him, a slow, pleasant, luxurious feeling, dangerous for a man with fa
r
to go; but tonight, for this one evening, he would relax.